


the black swan

by jeannedarc



Category: VIXX
Genre: Escort Service, M/M, Slow Burn, hyuk is there too u just gotta squint 2 find him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 19:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11516043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeannedarc/pseuds/jeannedarc
Summary: black swan: an event that comes as a surprise and has a major impact or effect.taekwoon is tired of going to industry parties alone.





	the black swan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toastyhyun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastyhyun/gifts).



> it's literally been months since i started this, so i guess? enjoy it? sorry for any inconsistencies. (not really.)

The studio is empty, save for him. _How it should be,_ he supposes, sitting behind a keyboard and gazing down at his own ghost-pale knuckles, _how it’s always been._ He rolls his neck, flicking his hair out of his eyes, and starts to play. It’s not a particularly difficult piece, but it’s the first he’s composed in quite some time, and therefore near and dear to his heart. He’s been working at it for awhile, and something doesn’t sound quite right. So in times like these, his off hours, he plays it ad nauseum, trying to figure out that one missing component.

When it’s finished the first time through, he reaches down, snatches up an uncapped water bottle and takes a long drink from it, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and plays again.

He does this for what feels like hours, though he only gets through it another five or six times before his wrists get sore, just that little ache that signals to him, _you’re not as young as you used to be._ The knowledge pains him worse than the cramp in his palm, so he rolls his wrists in slow circles, tries to get the circulation back to working order.

He’s about to start again when there’s an echoing tap-tap-tap at the window. Startling, Taekwoon looks up, mouth slightly agape as he rests eyes on his intruder -- Wonshik. Of course. Wonshik is obviously trying to communicate something verbally despite their mutual knowledge that the room in which Taekwoon is currently sitting is soundproof. A real ham. Taekwoon smiles in the way that he reserves specifically for jokes that he finds the funniest (and Wonshik always tells the jokes that are the funniest).

Taking the hint, Taekwoon steps away from the keyboard, smoothly sliding out from beneath him the cushioned bench, and collecting his sleek, black leather portfolio (into which he stuffs the sheet music he’d been playing incessantly today) along with his jacket (into which he slips with a messy and frustrated ruffle of his own hair). Without ceremony, he exits the studio, noting the unhappy click of the heavy door behind him when he closes it.

“You remember we have that party tonight?” is the first thing out of Wonshik’s mouth. Taekwoon, much to his own chagrin, has not forgotten, and knows without looking that Wonshik is staring him up and down, waiting on a response they both know will never come. “Hongbin is so excited, he hasn’t seen Hyoshin-nim in so long, you know how he gets when they’re at parties together…”

For the most part, Taekwoon is not listening, ashamedly so. He’s having one of his rare moments of clairvoyance, one that stems from prior experience, and can already feel the condescending clap on the shoulder from one of his producers, congratulating him for his good work. ‘A fine job you did on the latest release,’ he’ll say, face flowing with pride, though only momentarily. ‘Let me ask you, who’re you taking this home to, anyhow?’

They will both be aware that the answer is the same as always, hasn’t changed since Taekwoon made his big break playing back up on a popular female solo artist’s release about five years ago, that there is no one waiting for Taekwoon at home when he gets finished with this party. His stomach balloons with anxious dread at the notion. He realises in a flash that he cannot go to one more of these damned release parties alone; the fact; made of opinion and observation, is undeniable.

So, rude as it is, Taekwoon interrupts his best friend mid-sentence, something he is neither known for, nor fond of doing. “I really, really need a date tonight,” he intones softly, knowing that the sound of his voice alone will be enough to halt Wonshik in his conversational tracks. And it does, Wonshik quickly falling silent, thoughtful, steps slowing in a manner imperceptible to someone who doesn’t know him, hasn’t spent the last ten years befriending him, observing him, learning all his individualities.

“A date…?” And Wonshik shoots him that quizzical look reserved only for things he privately finds amusing, but would never admit. “You know I don’t do that, how can I help?”

“You found Hongbin, somehow,” Taekwoon teases, nudging his friend with a careful elbow. “I’m single, not completely clueless as to the ways of not being single.”

Wonshik’s amusement only multiplies, as if he had, in fact, previously thought Taekwoon completely clueless, but all the same, he just shifts mid-step and pulls his wallet from the pocket of his oversized hoodie. He files through a seemingly endless stack of business cards neatly slotted in the billfold, intense concentration on his face, before pulling one out, the obvious ‘eureka’ plain for Taekwoon to observe. He hands the card to Taekwoon, taking the elder’s palm between his own, pressing the edges of the card into the creases behind Taekwoon’s knuckles.

“These guys...they’re good. They helped me find Hongbin, kind of,” Wonshik explains, all enigma, straight eyebrows set seriously. “If they can help me even though I’m married to my studio, they can help you.”

Taekwoon is tired of the mystery immediately, even more so when he inspects the card -- deep navy with silver typeset, no name, just a number and a slogan of some sort. ‘We will take care of your every need.’ Now, Taekwoon’s best friend has been known to solicit the occasional illicit affair, typically with a high price and a higher result of embarrassment (never forget, Taekwoon recalls solemnly, the time Wonshik had his clothes, wallet, and car keys finessed out from under him before anyone ever laid so much as a finger on him; he’ll always remember that phone call, frantic, three in the morning, ‘I’m in a strange hotel and I think this is the address and can you please bring me some clothes?’). 

But Taekwoon has seen and deeply envied the way Hongbin and Wonshik look at each other -- as if there is no one else in the world but one another. And if this service, whatever it may be, is able to give Taekwoon a fraction of that…

Well, it would be enough to get everyone at the company off his back for a year, if not more. That prospect alone is due cause to motivate him into at least considering following Wonshik’s advice.

So he thanks Wonshik with the ghost of a smile, a bow of his head. “No problem, hyung,” Wonshik grins back, affectionately patting Taekwoon on the arm. “I’ll always help you if I can.” They part ways a few minutes later, both excusing themselves to get ready for the night’s events.

On the ride home, Taekwoon fiddles with the knife-sharp card between his calloused fingers, trying to decide if the potential for mortification on one end outweighs the guarantee of such on the other. It’s a short ride, of course, his apartment being no more than a few miles from work, and he ends up on the phone before he’s even out of the car.

The ringing seems to take forever, but when a raspy voice at the other end, low-pitched and seductive, answers, he breathes a sigh he hadn’t realised himself to be holding. “We will take care of your every need,” the voice says, by way of greeting, and the hello is all confident, almost arrogant, as if he has already been satisfied by the experience. That assurance alone is enough to send a shock of a shiver down his spine.

In starts and stops, Taekwoon explains his situation, careful to leave his own emotions out of the retelling. She asks him a few basic questions regarding his preferences as he, thankfully all alone, rides the elevator up to his floor. “Blond, brunet, redhead?” she asks. “Thin, thick, heavy? Eye colour? Height? Shorter than you doesn’t help, how tall? Any particular style? What’s this event? What kind of person do you need?” These questions last until he’s keying in the code on his security system. Then, almost as an aside, a forgotten question in this strange system, the voice asks him: “Male, female, other?”

A heavy heat slaps him in the face. “Male,” he murmurs, and has to repeat a moment later.

Of course, it only gets worse: “Is any sort of sexual relation going to be required of this event?”

“No,” he practically whispers, cheeks utterly aflame, closing the door behind him and setting to nudging off his shoes in the doorway.

The conversation continues on as he makes his way to his bathroom, fully intent on getting himself ready for the party. The voice at the other end asks him a few closing questions: name, address, method of payment. He doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to make it to the ATM in time to be fashionably late to the record release, but the notion of someone going through his transaction history and finding...whatever this company is in his records floors him.

When he attempts stammering his way out of making a decision and into backing out entirely, the voice reassures him: “Any card transactions show up in your statements as donations to a charitable organisation. You need not be concerned.”

Fuck, there went his last excuse. So he pulls out his wallet, rattles off his card number, almost hears the metaphorical cash register dinging on the other end.

“Your consort will be there within ninety minutes,” the voice says, and Taekwoon thanks it softly, hangs up with shaking fingers. Ninety minutes doesn’t give him much time, but he will be ready.

\-----

Jaehwan is fresh from a shower when his assignment comes in. Truthfully, a client had been the last thing on his mind an hour ago; he’s got a paper due for his Advanced Medical Terminology class on Sunday at midnight, and it’s Saturday night right now. Nevertheless, he always gets business on Saturdays, and tonight seems to be no exception, and it’s probably for the best -- he could use the distraction. So he starts preparing before his client’s information ever comes in, knowing it’s better to be proactive than reactive. At least in this case.

Ready on all fronts -- paper half-done, just a lot of stretching to be taken care of; fresh and clean and smelling of woodsmoke and leather and sandalwood -- Jaehwan stands in front of the bathroom mirror, ignoring all the chips in the glass and instead focusing on his face, worrying at his lower lip in the mirror in careful bites, turning them a faint shade of cherry-red. Just-kissed, his fellow escorts have told him, and it’s a trick that’s served him well throughout the course of this profession.

His phone makes rapid-fire notification sounds, texts; his bosses are so official, can’t they get Line like everyone else? But he doesn’t even bother dressing, grabs his phone and carries it to his room, wanting to lay down as he pores over the details of tonight’s job. Unfortunately, the details are scarce; beyond a name and address, there isn’t much to go by. He dislikes the jobs where the patron gives the specifics, but will suffer it, he decides as his eyes scan over the monetary figure several times.

It’ll do. It’ll do more than do, he notes, thinking already of the things that he needs, that this apartment needs, that he could do with this much money. Still bare and dewy from his shower, Jaehwan rolls onto his back, holding his phone aloft and grinning so huge that he has to bite his lip again to keep his smile from cracking his face in two.

With the address fresh on his mind, he does a quick web search of the building, and his jaw drops at the sight of it. High-rise, owners instead of tenants, with a gilded elevator visible from the street view and a doorman in a matching cream-and-gold uniform. The place glares of money, and Jaehwan’s mouth waters, fascinated. 

The thought occurs to him that the doorman probably makes more that Jaehwan’s tuition is worth, and he sighs, revelling secondhand in the lifestyle of the rich and famous. Suddenly the number in his texts seems a little low, and he wonders if he can get a tip for being a good boy by the end of the night. Old, rich men are like that, think high-price hookers need the money to get by and are desperate to have it, no matter how much they’re paid in the first place just to show up.

Shifting, Jaehwan pushes a drying curl from his forehead, a subtle reminder that he still has a bit to do in the way of getting ready. Old men with money, in his experience, rarely like the all-natural look, and he’s already on a timer. Between his place and the apartment building in question there’s a fifteen-minute travel time, which leaves him with a little over an hour to get ready. He pushes himself from bed, rushes back into the bathroom, nearly running into the wall beside the doorway as he goes.

He swears he hears a laugh from the other room as he yelps. His roommate is going to get it later.

He blowdries, gels his curls into subtle waves, making a sweep of fringe against his milk-white forehead. His trademark comma hair, as Seokjin is always so fond of calling it. Then he puts on his face -- foundation there, BB cream there, concealer everywhere. Thank God one of his closest friends is a professional makeup artist, has taught him the secrets of subtle contour and colour balancing, or else he’d probably look a complete mess on a daily basis. He puts in contacts, just a shade off his natural eye colour, enhancing them. He adds subtle liner to the very corners of his eyes, blinking at his reflection. When he finally takes another scrutinising look in the steam-tinged mirror, he doesn’t hardly recognise himself. Hopefully neither will the man who’s rented him for the evening.

Deciding that he is picture-perfect, photo-ready, Jaehwan goes back into his bedroom, flinging open the door to his tiny closet and peering inside. Amongst all the casual shirts, tees, scarves, dress shirts, hanging jeans and slacks, and the occasional oversized hoodie are two dry-cleaning bags, out-of-place enough that the eye is drawn right to them. Just like this apartment, just like his med school, just like his life -- this part of him, his profession, is so incongruous with the rest of him that it sticks out like a sore thumb.

Jaehwan unzips one of the bags, dresses carefully in his favourite suit -- professionally pressed, all-black, tailored perfectly with skinny slacks and a matching tie, the dress shirt underneath a pale, pale pink that matches the subtle colour in his cheeks. Fully dressed, he shuffles right back to the bathroom to give himself a last, long look in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door.

“What are you doing?” he hears Seokjin calling from the living room, apparently with a mouth half-full of food (as usual).

“Getting ready for work,” Jaehwan answers, reaching up to brush a particular strand of hair into its proper place. “It’s Saturday.”

Seokjin groans loud enough that the people upstairs stomp on their floor, reminding them of their place; they both laugh loudly, earning them another chastisement. “You’re always working on Saturday,” he says, voice growing closer until he stands in the doorway, leaning into the room, fingers curled around the doorframe. “I thought _we_ were going to go out.”

“First of all, _you_ weren’t going anywhere,” Jaehwan says seriously, puckering his perfectly-balmed lips, catching a whiff of pomegranate as he does. “You have a paper due first thing in the morning, and a day-date tomorrow. Don’t act like I don’t know your schedule.” It’s true, he does; being a bit of a listener gives him that advantage. “And second of all, I’ve been working Saturdays for every weekend for the past three months. We can hang out when we’re both not busy with class, or work, or a potential romantic connection.” The last part is teasing, but judging by the whine he receives, Seokjin doesn’t really think so. “Sound good?”

Seokjin nods, quietly murmurs something about how they’ve not seen each other in any substantial way in quite some time, which is true, and Jaehwan’s chest gently seizes at the notion. “I know, but we’ve got to make rent and tuition and eat and everything…” As if it warrants an explanation. As if Seokjin doesn’t take advantage of their fully-stocked fridge, or borrow from the emergency fund located on a shelf in their living room when he can’t find his subway card, or occasionally hit him up when a new textbook is needed or they run out of supplies, or…

Well, the point is there. Jaehwan earning as much money as he does benefits them both. With a bit of a pout, Seokjin leaves his spot in the doorway, apparently going back to eating and wondering what life is like when you actually finish your assignments on time.

Seokjin done away with for the moment, Jaehwan goes back to examining his appearance closely. He’s not vain by any means, doesn’t consider himself more handsome than the next guy working at his agency (god, he used to work with Lee Hongbin, probably one of the most handsome men walking the planet; however could he possibly compare?), but perfection is one of the things he’s becoming known for.

He checks his phone again, and realises that perfection comes at a cost: time, which he has very little of. He gives himself a last cursory up-and-down, then dashes across the tiny apartment, noting as he goes how awkward he must look: expensive, smelling incredible, hair perfect, makeup flawless, but surrounded by secondhand furniture and cracked walls and a sink full of dishes in an apartment barely big enough for one, but stuffed full with two.

The cab ride over to that foreign apartment building isn’t a long one, but Jaehwan finds himself fidgeting anxiously all the same. Obviously, this isn’t his first job, but for some reason it feels like it could be. He looks over the assignment details one last time, finds a text he hadn’t seen before.

His eyes go wide; he nearly drops his phone.

“No sex…?” he asks himself aloud, earning him a disapproving look from the cabbie, stern eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. Whatever. His opinion doesn’t matter, anyway. What does matter is that Jaehwan is going to be spending all night in this damn suit, no chance of freeing himself. Maybe he’ll drink a little too much, get naked on the ride home. It sounds like a good plan, but… he really doesn’t want to lose this job. What if it turns into a regular gig?

In any case, he’s at the building before he gets to fully process all his emotions in regards to the evening ahead. He’s so sure that Jung Taekwoon is at least middle-aged, balding, hair turning grey, no sense of fashion save for the living accessory on his arm. It doesn’t excite him, the prospect of being candy, there to be unwrapped and consumed (in more ways than one, though not this night) and enjoyed until he dissolves into obscurity, but at least the pay is great. That’s the only thing consoling him at this point. Money, money, money.

When he steps out of the cab, the evening air is a little brisk, and he’s grateful for the contrast between outdoors and the stuffy car, that the cool breeze at the nape of his neck is enough to relieve the flush finding its way up his neck, along his throat, against his cheeks and at the tips of his ears. He approaches the door with caution, only to be waved inside by the finely-dressed doorman, who makes polite conversation as he guides Jaehwan into the elevator, even goes so far as to press the appropriate button for him.

When the door closes, leaving him alone, Jaehwan reaches into his pocket, flirts his fingers around the edges of his phone, trying to force away those faux first-time fidgets. He doesn’t pace, though his legs tingle with the need to do so, instead sort of halfway hopping in place, only stopping when the doors slide open once again on the appropriate floor. 

With a last sigh, shaking the shivers from his shoulders, Jaehwan exits, makes slow, measured paces to the door all the way at the end of the hallway, on the left. The apartment’s exterior is outfitted with one of those fancy security systems, the kind with a camera built-in, so before ringing the doorbell, Jaehwan positions himself in front of the camera in such a way so that whoever’s inside -- this Jung Taekwoon -- will only see his eyes.

Then he buzzes the button, waiting.

“Jung Taekwoon-ssi…?” he asks, almost so soft as to not be heard. “I hope this is the right apartment...”

\-----

Later, much later, Taekwoon will remember this moment, remember gazing deep into molasses-brown eyes flecked with subtle honey and hints of a smile crinkling the corners. He will recall that a live feed of possibly the most beautiful eyes was being streamed directly into his apartment, and there he was, standing in a comfortable cream sweater with a deep mahogany jacket and equally dark brown slacks, barefoot despite his usual tendency not to be, hair hanging in his eyes just enough to make his vision of those same eyes blurry, but not enough to obscure completely. He will know that, in that moment, the barest hints of that voice, nevermind hearing it full-on, makes him envious of composers that wrote down the universe simply because of that one voice, makes him wish he too could somehow capture that beautiful a symphony on paper.

Yet here he is, a simple pianist, standing barefoot, mouth agape, face aflame, unable to think of the notes that could possibly encompass the voice that’s streaming in through his security system.

His wallet suddenly becomes a stone in his pocket, weighing him down, and the gravity of the situation settles over him once more. No matter how lovely this so-called consort, he has paid for the evening of company, and this is merely a farce in order to gain some much-needed, much-deserved peace and quiet about his love life.

He goes down the hall, past his empty living room, clicking off light switches as he goes, and stops in the doorway to nudge into his expensive leather boots. When secure, Taekwoon opens the door, and apparently the consort didn’t expect him to come quickly, or at all, because he’s still standing there, peering into the camera, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

Then he turns, and if Taekwoon didn’t know something odd was happening before, he did by the sudden and uncontrollable thudding of his heart against his ribs.

This consort is...well, breathtaking, because beyond those eyes is a sharp, angular nose, a well-defined jaw, full lips and pale, unmarked skin. He looks impeccable, with his soft, dark curls standing out against his forehead, obviously manipulated into place but not so much so that anyone might question it. And his body, his long legs, his thin but shapely arms, his…

Ah, Taekwoon’s staring. He blinks, says nothing, waits.

The consort dips his head in a bow, and when he raises up again he’s wearing the kind of smile that could win awards. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, careful, “my name is Lee Jaehwan. I’ll be accompanying you for the evening.”

Proper. Charming. Already winning Taekwoon’s heart, even if it’s only in the most minimal of ways. “I _am_ Jung Taekwoon,” he half-jokes, “and this is my apartment.”

“Oh, you...you heard that.” The tips of Jaehwan’s ears flush a pretty pink and his smile seems to grow, though how such a thing is possible Taekwoon has no idea. “I, um, I have a tendency to get lost a lot? A lot. So your doorman is kind of a blessing on that count, he pressed the button for me and everything.”

A joke. And Taekwoon laughs, if just for a second, a tiny huff of breath. “You found me just fine.” 

He lifts his wrist, checks his watch, and oh, hell, they’re going to be late if they keep bantering in the doorway. Glancing up he sees a peculiarly curious expression on Jaehwan’s face; he’s peering over Taekwoon’s shoulder, trying to see into the darkness of his apartment, and Taekwoon, suddenly annoyed, exits his home, closing the door behind him sharply. 

“There’s a car downstairs waiting for us,” Taekwoon mumbles, leading the way to the elevator. Jaehwan follows along quickly, stride practically matching Taekwoon’s, and he might be irritated but he’s also in a bit of admiration -- usually the only person that ever tries to keep up with him is Wonshik. “We should probably...talk about things, when we get on the way to the party.”

Jaehwan agrees with a quiet hum, and presses the call button for the elevator before Taekwoon gets the chance. “Talk about things,” he repeats with a soft smile, like he knows something Taekwoon doesn’t, “yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Is there something wrong with my face…?” Taekwoon asks, suspicious, an eyebrow raised just enough to etch a line into his forehead.

“No, not at all.” Jaehwan hums again. “I just thought you’d be around fifty, and fat, and not know how to take a joke, or have a conversation, or think I was stupid.”

“...You’re not stupid.” Taekwoon knows it’s probably presumptuous of him to say so, their acquaintance having lasted a maximum five minutes thus far, but anyone clever enough to make him laugh can’t think that poorly of themselves.

The elevator doors slide open, and they step inside, Jaehwan first, just quick on the jump, with Taekwoon trailing close behind. The elevator is large enough that they don’t have to touch, which is for the best -- Taekwoon isn’t sure, with all the stress he’s under this evening, how he would react to being touched unnecessarily, and while Jaehwan’s profession seems to be being touched he doesn’t seem too keen on the idea, doesn’t make any moves to contradict the space between the two of them. 

When they exit the apartment building, the doorman sees them off with a wicked gleam in his eye, an enigmatic smile tugging at his lips -- the kind Jaehwan had been wearing minutes ago, but with the opposite intent. _It’s not what it looks like,_ Taekwoon wants to protest; he’s compelled to stop and explain the entire situation just so as to make himself look less guilty. But Jaehwan moves too quickly -- _you’re getting old,_ says again that voice in Taekwoon’s head -- and beats him to the town car before Taekwoon can make it there.

A gentleman in disguise, Jaehwan opens the door for Taekwoon, allowing him to take his seat first before crossing the back of the car to get in himself. While they’re parted for a brief moment, Taekwoon scrubs at his eyes with his palms, trying to ease some of the tension built up in his features.

Jaehwan secure, the car departs. It’s not a long ride, but it does give them enough time to establish a story. The consort, however, has other ideas as to what they should discuss.

“What kind of event are we going to?” he asks, immediately rolling down the window and resting his elbow on the frame. “I mean, I know it’s a party or something, it always is, but I didn’t get any details.”

“Oh, um…” Taekwoon focuses his gaze on the scenery rolling past, right behind Jaehwan’s head, careful not to make eye contact lest he get himself totally fucked. “It’s an album release. One of our new soloists, Ahn Hyejin, just released her first full-length. I did some of the compositions, played a lot of the piano.” His cheeks tingle with heated pride. “Have you heard of her?”

“Have I heard of her?” Jaehwan scoffs, though his features remain soft all the same -- another joke, though this one not quite of the same ilk. “Of course I have, she’s only about the biggest thing on the charts right now. You’ve worked with her?”

“I do work with her,” Taekwoon replies, finding it rather easy to converse with this stranger -- easier, say, than some of the people he’s known his entire musical career. “She’s signed to JPH. I’m contracted out by them, in case they need someone but don’t have anyone.”

“Is that how people get famous, then…?” Jaehwan inquires with a lift of his brows. It’s funny, Taekwoon notes, that he’s basically a glorified prostitute, sold to the highest bidder for a few hours’ worth company, but he looks so childish asking all these questions. “They just do things that important people don’t already have someone doing?”

“No, it’s not.” Taekwoon’s gaze shifts lazily from the cityscape to the gentle fumbling of Jaehwan’s hands, one over the other, probably a nervous habit. Funnier still that he hadn’t been nervous to that degree before Taekwoon had told him the nature of the event. “We need to work out a story, you know.”

“A story!” Jaehwan’s eyes crinkle up into crescents and his smile goes tight. “I do really like stories. How about this: I’m... an art student from a rich family who disowned me for loving you so much, and...and...crap, where’d it go...I really had an idea like that.”

“Actually, I’d prefer if our story involved us dating,” Taekwoon says bluntly, that agitated line appearing between his brows again. “For a little while, anyhow. We can meet however you want.”

Jaehwan seems puzzled, as if unsure how to process this information, and Taekwoon almost wants to shake him, but in a kindly way. His hands seem to fidget faster, one travelling over the other in measured circles. Then he responds, “That’s fine. But in return I want to know why we need to have been dating awhile.”

“Because I never bring anyone to these parties,” Taekwoon informs him, drawing in on himself a little just at the sight of Jaehwan’s continual motion, as if he is energy incarnate, as if he is everything Taekwoon has never been, can never be. “And if they just think I’m a private person, then they’ll leave me alone about being nearly thirty and single.”

“Nearly thirty, huh?” Jaehwan’s soft smile turns into a wicked smirk in the span of a second. “So should I call you hyung?”

“Yes.”

“So serious, this hyung. I will, don’t worry. And we can have been dating two years if that’s what you need me to be. You saw the card. ‘We will fulfill your every desire’, or something like that, right?”

Now Taekwoon is confused, unsure how to process the accusation. “Let’s not discuss the card.”

“Fine by me.” Jaehwan looks as if he wants to say something else, but his expression hasn’t changed from that dopey grin of his one time throughout the conversation, despite his thinly-veiled questions-as-other-questions and attempts at getting Taekwoon to talk too much.

They spend the last remaining minutes of their car ride in quiet, not silence because Jaehwan can’t seem to stop making noise for the life of him, and Taekwoon, when he realises he knows bits of the song -- it’s one he’s written, just not one of Ahn Hyejin’s, one that had been popular on the radio a couple months prior -- hums along with the harmonies. Jaehwan notices, eyes him, suspicion and amusement lighting his eyes again.

There’s no red carpet -- that particular function was the night before, and Taekwoon had been mercifully excused from having to attend -- but there are large clusters of people outside, ordinary citizens with nothing to do with the recording industry, except maybe recording the occasional embarrassing video and putting it up on the Internet. They all have their cell phones out, and they’re all waiting for actual recording celebrities to exit their vehicles; Taekwoon can swear he hears them collectively take a breath, anticipating someone who’s actually a big deal to step onto the scene, and their frustrated sigh when it’s just himself and his consort. No, he corrects himself, date.

He and Jaehwan get out of the car, which is promptly taken to the valet service, leaving them to deal with the dissatisfied mob before them alone. Thankfully, one of the other guests, having already arrived, spots Taekwoon from across the landing outside the building, and beckons him over.

“Hakyeon,” Taekwoon calls, eyebrows raised, the barest hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. And he’s happy to see his friend, but…

He glances over his shoulder at Jaehwan, then back at Hakyeon, who’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong. Shit. This requires explanation. Not one of his fortes. He reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck, then steps aside as Hakyeon bounds over to him. Hakyeon, for his part, stops just short of crashing into Taekwoon, arms around his neck, in spite of the fact that he knows Taekwoon will, very gently, push him off.

Hakyeon stares at Jaehwan. Jaehwan stares at Hakyeon. Taekwoon stares at the floor between three sets of dress shoes.

For a brief second Taekwoon believes he imagines a crackle of tension between his best friend and his date, Hakyeon’s eyes narrowed even though he smiles so broadly it might break his face in two. Jaehwan bats his pretty eyelashes, and even Hakyeon, who pays attention to everything, kind of drops his guard, albeit accidentally. “Taekwoon, you didn’t tell me you were bringing someone,” Hakyeon chides him sternly, looking from one face to the other.

Taekwoon has the decency to blush, but just as he’s fumbling for an explanation, Jaehwan is jumping right in there. “It kind of happened by accident,” he says, reaching over and clapping a hand on Taekwoon’s shoulder, giving him the fond sort of look that might make others’ hearts melt. “We were going to separate formal events tonight, and met coming out of our apartments -- I’m his new neighbour, after all -- and I decided that mine wasn’t near as important as this.” He lifts a hand, gestures to the splendour all around them -- the low lighting, the sound of running water every time the door opens to let in another patron of the party, the photographers lined up at the curb, the droves of complete strangers held back by metal barriers.

Hakyeon senses a lie, and Taekwoon can see it in his face, but his expression must be one of pleading, because instead of asking questions, Hakyeon schools the disbelief from his face and bows his head graciously in Jaehwan’s direction. “Well, then, I’m Cha Hakyeon, and it’s nice to meet you, um… Taekwoon’s date.” 

Jaehwan bows right back, perhaps a little deeper, and when he rises he flashes a smile that shows all his teeth. “Lee Jaehwan. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Taekwoon wants nothing more than to go inside, get this...whatever it will end up being, over with, supposes that it’ll be easier now that he doesn’t have to spend the night avoiding Hakyeon’s stern and accusing glares. Except… shit, is that their cover story, now? He’s overwhelmed with the need to take Jaehwan aside and ask him too many questions, a reversal he’d find amusing were anyone other than himself involved in it.

At the very last second, as Hakyeon is heading up the small procession of them entering the venue, Taekwoon decides that Jaehwan is a professional, that he’d come up with that story on the spot, and that maybe a tiny bit of trust is in order.

Maybe.

\-----

Jaehwan is like a kid in a candy store when they make their way into the party, eyes shining with a happiness for which Taekwoon has no logical explanation. Isn't he a professional partygoer, of sorts? Sure, not everyone can get into industry events, but that doesn't mean this is much different than your garden variety rich people gala.

Still, it's endearing, watching Jaehwan flit about the room; between bottle service, the chocolate fountain, the several ice sculptures decorating the tables of tapas and hors d'oeuvres, and dozens upon dozens of Taekwoon's contemporaries, he seems a little lost. It makes him look almost smaller than he is, and the realisation that he kind of enjoys seeing someone so precious and so clearly out of their element try and blend in anyway wrenches at Taekwoon's heart in the sweetest of ways.

Jaehwan doesn't seem the type to shy away from interaction, but when he spots Ahn Heeyeon from across the room he's glued to Taekwoon's side, asking a million and one questions Taekwoon can't (and doesn't want to) answer in regards to some recent gossip rag scandal or another he probably read about in a grocery store checkout line. After realising he won't get information from his date, he kind of checks out of socialising without someone there to slide him on in there.

If Jaehwan’s looking to get into the business, this is definitely the way to do it. He meets, in no particular order, the COO of the label, the newest debut from the same company whose success is considered a meteoric rise to the top and whose face is considered to be next in line as Korea’s solo-singing sweetheart, several studio artists who are famous for the sole purpose of helping others climb their way to the top, a handful of up-and-coming hip-hop producers whose features on certain tracks is propelling their names to subject of common conversation, and many, many wives and girlfriends, all of whom are lovely, none of whom have quite the sparkle that he does.

Taekwoon, for the most part, is impressed, if only because Jaehwan is one of those natural flirts, the kind that makes everyone feel included in a conversation even if it’s a group of ten or more, whose eyelashes brush his cheek so often that one would think he had some sort of blinking problem were it not so pretty an act, who bows deeply to the right people and knows what he’s talking about when discussing the happenings of the industry, if only in a vague way. More than once he finds himself getting lost in those eyes, and doesn’t even notice that it’s happening until his best friend Wonshik is sidling up to him in a brief lull in the party.

“You made the call?” he asks quietly, into a glass of neat whiskey tipped up toward his face. Right now Jaehwan and Hongbin seem to be making stilted conversation with one another, Jaehwan too much and Hongbin a little quiet in the face of him.

Taekwoon nods, takes the glass from his friend’s hand and finishes the drink himself, though not out of any particular want to be drunk for this function so much as wanting to blend in a little better than he already is -- a first, for him. “He’s… something.”

Wonshik takes this for the compliment it is as quickly as he takes his glass back, only to find it drained and making a noise of something like disappointment. “He’s a professional. Just don’t do like I did and fall in love with him or something and everything will be just fine.” With that, and with a well-placed elbow to the stomach, hard enough to call attention but not hard enough to hurt, Wonshik makes his way back to his own date, casting one of his trademark mysterious grins over his shoulder at Taekwoon, who almost physically recoils at the sight of the expression.

Separated from his partner in conversation, Jaehwan comes right back to Taekwoon’s side, a glass of clear liquor in his hands -- martini? Taekwoon hadn’t pegged him as the drinking type, especially on the job, but here they are -- and the brightest of smiles on his face, the sort that crinkles up the corners of his eyes. “I thought this was going to be boring, but everyone here is so cool,” he breathes, clearly reverent, his beautiful eyes twinkling like jewels. “And I’m meeting famous people. God, Jinnie is going to be so jealous when he finds out--”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Taekwoon interrupts, watching the slight fraction that Jaehwan’s face falls but ignoring it as best he can. “About maybe doing this more regularly.”

“Doing this…” Jaehwan hums, clearly contemplating. Of course he’d like to continue making the money he’s making tonight, and he’d kill to get into another one of these parties on his own merit, nevermind being a permanent invitee to them. “You mean parties like this? Rich people in fancy suits? Cool celebrities? Alcohol and industry gossip?” He waves the drink in his hand, a gesticulation that doesn’t suit him. The bridge of his nose wrinkles a little, as if to fake disdain. “No, yeah, I’d be okay with that.”

“I’d be paying you,” Taekwoon continues, not having completely processed Jaehwan’s preemptive agreement. “More than your usual rate, if we have a standing date. And you’d have to pretend to be my boyfriend, but--”

“Calm down,” Jaehwan says with his hand on Taekwoon’s elbow, maybe a little too tender when he puckers his lips in a show of amusement, “I already said yes.” That smile is back, the excited one with the twinkles, and Taekwoon almost doesn’t know what to do with it, what a proper response might be, so even though it seems like the wrong thing to do he covers Jaehwan’s hand with his own.

Just then, Hakyeon approaches them, and Jaehwan, understanding the gravity of this, makes his way across the room to make nice with Kim Sunggyu, the latest singer-turned-producer hired on to the label’s team. The look on Hakyeon’s face is that one, the pinched one, the one that Taekwoon knows better than to not take seriously (not that he ever takes any of Hakyeon’s looks seriously, anyway). “So you brought a date,” and he doesn’t even bother to hide that he’s fishing for information. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”

“I’m not,” Taekwoon murmurs, snatching a flute of champagne from the tray of a nearby waiter and offering it to Hakyeon in hopes that it might calm him down a little. Though he might not look it, he’s definitely angry that there’s something happening in Taekwoon’s life he didn’t know about. “This just sort of happened.”

“That’s what he said, but I know you better than that.” Hakyeon hands the glass back to Taekwoon immediately. “People don’t ‘just sort of happen’ to you.” The lines in his face ease a little as he studies Taekwoon, how relaxed he is, how contented he seems to be in this moment. “...I don’t believe you for a second,” he states in a low, slow, serious tone, “but I’m happy that you found someone you don’t hate to bring to these things.”

Taekwoon’s gaze has, almost predictably, drifted to Jaehwan’s form, halfway across the room, laughing it up with not only Kim Sunggyu but one of those hip-hop producers, Jung Ilhoon, and the sound is just loud enough that Taekwoon can hear, smile fondly.

Hakyeon snatches the untouched glass of champagne right back from Taekwoon’s hand, still outstretched in his initial offering. “Gross,” he chides before tipping back about half of it into his mouth, “so gross. Tell me later. Promise me you will.”

“I will,” Taekwoon says absently, stare never flickering once.

\---

Taekwoon and Jaehwan make it back to Taekwoon’s apartment building safe and sound after a few more hours of party than Taekwoon can usually stand. Privately he’s proud of himself for not being the first person to leave. They’re both sweetly tipsy, laughing at jokes that mean nothing, enjoying the company of one another, even if Taekwoon seems too shy to admit as much. The doorman gives Taekwoon a look similar to the one he’d given upon their departure, but Taekwoon’s got just enough alcohol in his system to ignore it while believing it doesn’t really matter. They don’t touch in the elevator -- a pre-established rule, the likes of which both of them are pretty happy to follow -- but they do exchange a few meaningful glances, Jaehwan’s cheeks flushing pink prettily in the vaguely yellow light of the elevator car. Ah, but maybe that’s the alcohol. At least, Taekwoon imagines it to be.

The gilded sliding doors ding open and Jaehwan, a gentleman, offers his arm to escort Taekwoon back to his own abode, which Taekwoon eschews with a polite shake of his head. “Sorry, I just…”

“It’s fine,” Jaehwan chirps, skidding giddily along the tile flooring in a manner that can only be described as childish. “Some people want to be the nice one, some people don’t want to be touched…”

“You sound like you’ve been doing this awhile.” There’s no surprise in Taekwoon’s voice, nor any judgment, just a comment in the vein of someone speaking on the weather. “You have, haven’t you?”

“Mm, a little while,” Jaehwan agrees, and his lips twitch slightly as if he wants to say more, but they’re at Taekwoon’s door, and his expression shifts into one of...is that resignation? Defeat? In any case it’s little more than a flicker before he’s the self to which Taekwoon has become accustomed. “Um, the...the little note I got about you, it said you wouldn’t want me to…”

“Come in for a drink?” Taekwoon is absolutely nonplussed by Jaehwan’s sudden nerves, despite the fact that they betray the ways in which he’s been otherwise professional throughout the course of tonight. “No, I… I don’t do that.” There’s something unspoken there, something on which Jaehwan can’t quite place his finger, and maybe he’s not the only one with hints at a secret, he supposes as Taekwoon keys in the code to his apartment.

“Should I take your number?” Taekwoon lingers in his own doorway, half-turned to Jaehwan, who lights up at the prospect, having nearly forgotten about the entire standing date deal they’d made back at the party. (He hasn’t even had that much to drink at this point. What a shame.)

They exchange messages and subsequently phone numbers, and Taekwoon bids Jaehwan a lukewarm goodnight, leaving Jaehwan standing alone in the hallway to bounce on his toes. He can’t wait to tell Seokjin about this -- well, what he can tell, anyway.

When he exits the building, the doorman gives him nothing but coldness, a frigid stare that doesn’t have any explanation; it isn’t as if they’ve had any particularly interesting interaction, much less anything that requires judgment from this stranger. When he passes his window, he checks the state of his hair, his face, makes sure nothing is out of place; there’s nothing that he can tell, so he knows it’s not any visible fault of his own. Maybe the guy is just kind of an asshole. Maybe he’s jealous? Anything is possible, isn’t it, he surmises, bottom lip poking out.

He sinks down a little into the collar of his jacket, hails a cab home. It’s nothing to worry himself about, he supposes, giving the building one last longing look as he climbs into the stifling artificial heat of the backseat of his taxi.

\-----

Of course, when he wakes up in the morning, early as ever, Taekwoon has about a million Line messages, not to mention several unheard voicemails, a barrage of texts, and requests to join social media sites he’s never heard of. Most of these hails are from Hakyeon; Taekwoon skims through them and gets the gist, makes a promise to the universe out there that he’ll return his best friend’s attempts at communication as soon as he’s had enough coffee.

Scattered intermittently among these millions of messages in their various forms are a couple of congratulations from Wonshik, which make Taekwoon smile on virtue of their very existence. There’s also, strangely enough, a message from an unknown number; he reads that last of all, and it’s from Jaehwan, whose contact information he’d forgotten to save the night previously, as one does when they’ve had the most successful interpersonal interaction in recent memory.

It’s a photo -- the suit Jaehwan had been wearing the night before lying wrinkled, soft, on a rather dingy looking bedspread. The message beneath reads, _Should I get another one of these hyungie? You kept looking at me last night & I thought maybe you might like it~ (●´ω｀●)_

Is that… What is that? An emoji? He doesn’t have enough daylight in him to decipher it. Instead Taekwoon pads out to his kitchen to make himself breakfast, coffee, a decent attempt at another day.

\-----

Jaehwan does, in fact, end up buying several more of that same suit, in different colours to match the changing of the seasons. He gets Seokjin’s opinion on every one, of course, sending a barrage of photos of how his ass looks in the triple mirror of the dressing room he’s currently entombed inside; Seokjin’s response is supportive, if a little sarcastic. Jaehwan buys all the ones he tries, places orders with the tailors, takes the one from the party to the drycleaners. He doesn’t know when he and Taekwoon’s next date will be, but he’s definitely looking forward to it.

Except… days go by. Entire cycles of twenty-four hours. Years of his life fall from him as he goes back to reality, to studying, vocabulary, exams, little side-jobs here and there. The party had been on a Saturday, and it isn’t until the following Wednesday that he finally gets word from Taekwoon. Nothing too personal, of course -- Jaehwan knows to expect efficiency from him, somehow; it both amuses and disappoints him -- just a date and a time. Friday night, then. Jaehwan notes it in his calendar, sets his phone down on the table, and gets back to writing notes about chemical decomposition.

He can’t let it rest there, though, is pretty much physically incapable of doing as much; he picks up his phone with twitching fingertips. It doesn’t look cute, though, he guesses, to send something back right away, so he takes his time, messages back after a few minutes of careful contemplation. _Thanks hyung ヽ(〃＾▽＾〃)ﾉ Can’t wait to see you again~!!_

Agony seizes him, soon as he sets his phone down again. Too eager? Not eager enough? And curse his obsession with emoji, they’d make him look stupid every time. He hates not knowing what’s expected of him -- he might be a self-proclaimed master of observation but he hadn’t dedicated much time to observing Taekwoon when they were together last. Dumb of him, really, to get blindsided by the whole celebrity thing. (Not like it’s the first time he’s done anything like this, scoff scoff.)

The pain only grows when he goes another whole day without a response.

And then, to both his horror and great delight, Jaehwan’s answer comes in the form of no answer at all, rather a little tidbit of information, not from Taekwoon but from his own agency. His payment for the upcoming weekend has come in, and would he please check his flex account to make sure everything has gone through alright?

Interesting. The only kinds of people who pay in advance, in Jaehwan’s experience, are those who want certain things, and Jung Taekwoon hasn’t shown inclination toward those at all. 

Every time he asks a question, a million more pop up, and while it’s exciting beyond reason, it’s also completely baffling. He makes a list, then, of things he’d like to speak with Taekwoon about, nothing to do with celebrity gossip (although, truthfully, he’s made a list of those things too, for when they’re closer, more comfortable). 

Chief among them: _If you don’t want to sleep with me, what_ do _you want?_

\-----

Friday night comes, and Taekwoon is, for once in his life, not completely dreading the social engagement into which he’s been tricked. It might have a little to do with the fact that he hasn’t been able to figure Jaehwan out hardly at all. Though he’s more than happy to chalk it up to professionalism, Taekwoon’s limited experience with relationships of any kind tell him that people’s eyes don’t just sparkle for anyone. The glint in Jaehwan’s eyes that first night is an image he’s found inescapable, though, and he wants so badly to ask what it could possibly have _meant_.

He dresses as he always does, maybe a little better (he can hear Hakyeon clucking in his ear about how he could do better, but God, he just doesn’t _want_ to), all-black with white underneath, tight, shiny leather and soft fabric and his hair slicked back a little, just to keep it from hiding his face. Not that he particularly wants to be seen, of course, just that he would like to be able to see…

Who? What? The thought flickers there, an inconsistent flame in consistent wind, but is gone before he can truly grasp it.

In any case, he’s got some time before Jaehwan is meant to be at his doorstep, so he ends up curled on the couch, reading a book without really reading it, trying his best to recapture that thought as well as reconcile some writing he’s been working on all week. He glances over the same paragraph about seven times before recognising that he’s not actually doing anything, merely trying to convince himself he is, and, frustrated, flops the book on the coffee table in front of him.

The doorbell rings; he perks immediately, bare hints of a smile curling his mouth. It is everything he can do not to run to the door, though he’s not entirely sure why? He just knows that he’s been looking forward to this for days, since Wonshik had told him on Wednesday that they were invited to another function.

(Funnily enough, Wonshik had given him a rather strange look as he’d mulled over the implications of having somewhere to be this weekend. Why would his best friend be so amused that Taekwoon actually _wanted_ to do something? Life, in this way, is and has always been puzzling, to him.)

The CCTV shows Jaehwan in all his glory, harsh-lit by the fluorescence of the hallway, but stunning nonetheless, dressed in soft peach and black and white, a complement to what some have called Taekwoon’s natural gloom. His heart flits, strange, in his chest, at the sound of Jaehwan’s voice. “Hyuuuuuung~” he singsongs, and Taekwoon’s heart flits again, faster, more painful. This must be a heart attack, and he knows now that tonight will be his untimely death, as happens to all great artists.

It is with a great heaviness to his head and lightness to his step that Taekwoon answers the door, the two unable to reconcile one another in any, making him feel all the better and all the worse at once.

\-----

Jaehwan isn’t one for tantrums, but he’s deeply considering throwing one in this moment.

Not that this particular event is boring in any way, of course, just that he hasn’t gotten much of a chance to be around Taekwoon tonight. It’s kind of bumming him out? He’s had a couple of glasses of champagne, trying to dull the ache of schmoozing with strangers, but all it’s done is made him uncoordinated and uncomfortable and a little dizzy.

It also doesn’t help that the event in question is a wedding reception. Western style. Had he known he might’ve dressed a little differently, at least worn a tie or something. As it is he’s stranded on the fringes of a dance floor, his jacket shed some time ago to a pile of similarly rumpled ones and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows for the sake of ventilation. It’s so _hot_ , he despairs, he might melt. In his twenty-four years, his experience with weddings is giving a gift and dancing a little and leaving. It is not this entire affair, good food and good liquor and a lot of kissing from a couple he’s never met and loud music and… God, are Westerners _really_ this tacky?

He’s just about to beg mercy in the form of a text, claim the world’s worst headache, when he feels Taekwoon’s silent energy at his side, the barest graze of a hand at his elbow. “We have to go,” says that feathery voice, the cool breath against his ear making Jaehwan shiver. “Right now.”

Jaehwan doesn’t really want to know why, and is all too happy to oblige the request, but then Hakyeon -- was that his name? Jaehwan, in this moment, can’t remember -- is there in front of him, smiling sweetly, and Jaehwan doesn’t know this guy from anyone else at this God-awful wedding party save for a chance encounter a week ago, but he does know a fake smile when he sees one.

“So apparently it’s tradition that there’s a couple chosen as who’s next to get married,” he chirps brightly, tone belying nothing sinister, though Jaehwan’s wariness doesn’t ease one bit. “And apparently someone decided it was you two.”

“I _really_ don’t think that’s how that works, Hakyeon,” Taekwoon is protesting, the hand not on Jaehwan’s arm raised in surrender. Jaehwan had never once imagined he’d get to see a client in such panic over something so small, but he relishes in it nonetheless, marks it down for later.

“That’s what the bride said,” Hakyeon insists, raising a finger to subtly point in the direction of said bride’s table, where she’s draped over her wife’s lap lovingly, looking straight at where Taekwoon, Jaehwan and Hakyeon are standing in an awkward cluster. “And what Seungwan says goes here, apparently. Joohyun made sure when she invited us we’re all willing to make her happy.” That weird, evil glint in Hakyeon’s eye flashes again, and Jaehwan swears he feels the air between the three of them grow colder.

Jaehwan, for his part, puts on a face of bravado, though he neither knows nor cares about any particular bride’s wishes. “Yeah, okay, cool. What do we do?”

Taekwoon, in the corner of Jaehwan’s eye, shakes his head rapidly, but he doesn’t know Jaehwan well enough to know that he doesn’t back down from a challenge.

Hakyeon laughs quietly, that same evil draining from him. He holds up a bouquet of yellow-and-white flowers. “Take this. And kiss.”

The blood drains from Jaehwan’s entire body as quickly as possible without knocking him to the floor. Shit. This is not part of the agreement? He understands Taekwoon’s panic completely, does not want to do this, not for himself (of course he’d kiss Taekwoon, why wouldn’t he?) but rather for the sake of his client’s comfort. Part of his contract and whatnot. Not to mention personal creed.

That joy on Hakyeon’s face, though, doesn’t really go away, even as he’s thrusting the ribboned flowers into Taekwoon’s hands. “Here you go. Seungwan asked the DJ to play something slow, in case you’re interested in dancing a little first.”

Jaehwan finds that his throat is a desert when he tries to swallow back the nerves. Nevertheless, one of them has to be at least a little brave, so he takes Taekwoon by the wrist, pulls him out onto the dancefloor, dead in the middle, surrounded by a circle of strangers. It is under observation that they have their first dance.

Taekwoon doesn’t know what to do with his hands, considering they’re filled with flowers, so Jaehwan takes pity on him, takes the bouquet from his grasp in a fluid motion that ends with his arms looped around Taekwoon’s neck. They sway to the building sound of English music, and couples slowly start filing in to do the same, the bride and her bride among them. The song is suitably slow, strangely soulful, the kind that twinges one’s heartstrings in just such a way that they _crave_ a kiss from someone else. Jaehwan, much to his own misfortune, has never been immune to this particular effect, and is even less immune when he looks up into Taekwoon’s face to see heat rising in it.

Almost as if spurred on by unnamed forces, Jaehwan pauses them midstep to stand on his tiptoes, leaving them nose-to-nose. “Sorry about this, hyung,” he whispers, so quietly his lips barely move.

Then they’re locked at the lips, shocking Jaehwan completely, Taekwoon having been the one to close the distance between their mouths. It’s daring, the kiss, a firm movement of lips against his own, and he sighs into it, arms wrapping around Taekwoon’s middle as Jaehwan kisses right back.

Somewhere in the distance is the sound of excited catcalls. Jaehwan ignores them completely, fingers winding in the hem of Taekwoon’s jacket, pulling them closer together.

\-----

Every week is a different adventure, and Taekwoon expects to tire of them. He doesn’t, though, instead finds that even when he’s at his busiest in the studio, every spare moment is dedicated to the memory of Jaehwan, his sparkling eyes, his soft hands, the seriousness with which he’d looked at Taekwoon before kissing him. They’ve gone no further than they did at the wedding; even in the limo ride home, Jaehwan had given Taekwoon the space he needed in order to decompress.

He doesn’t know that he feels great about fake-dating a high-price whore, but God, he’s never had someone so considerate of his needs. It’s all the more striking to him when he considers that, though he’s not great at the estimation of others, he’s fairly certain that Jaehwan isn’t one to be thinking of the needs of others, even a few drinks in and under great pressure.

When he isn’t working, Taekwoon is slowly stringing together a composition -- a twinkling piano melody and not much else, just a little bit of humming, the words that go with it undiscovered by him as of yet. It doesn’t occur to him until the night before another function (a fundraiser for local music programs; it had been optional, but he had opted in on the invitation offered him by Wonshik, who had pinned him with the most curious of stares) that he’s actually looking forward to spending time with another human being who _isn’t_ one of his two best friends.

Every day he receives a few messages, checking in on him, laden heavy with emoji that he’s too embarrassed to even search the meaning of. He doesn’t know that he, a humble musician and self-professed socially awkward fool, is deserving of this sort of kindness, but it comes just the same.

He messages Jaehwan only right before their dates, unsure as to how to go about their relationship if it’s not professional. This particular event is casual, and he wonders how different it might be to see Jaehwan outside a suit, outside the makeup and the done-up hair and the expensive cologne. He’s not entirely certain he’s ready for it.

 _I need you to come over early,_ he tells Jaehwan in a message the morning of. _I want to talk to you about something._ He’s got a plan in mind, and he’s not sure it’s a good one, but it’s one that’s been on his mind the last few days -- not during the busy times, not even the idle ones, but specifically when he’s working on his little composition, trying to make it into a song with which he’s satisfied.

He’s in jeans and a button-up shirt when his doorbell rings, shoes off, socks on, hair still messy. Not his best look, and for reasons of which he’s not entirely certain, he’s a little embarrassed by it, but he answers the door after a quick tousling of his own fringe, a glance in the mirror he keeps in the tiny foyer.. 

“Hey,” he breathes out, “I’m glad you got my message.”

“I’m glad you got mine,” Jaehwan jokes, and when he laughs at himself he’s somehow even more radiant than he would be talking to some stranger, flirting them into complete complacency. “You’re not the best at communicating, are you?” He’s still standing in the doorway, fresh-faced and beautiful, fidgeting from side to side, one hand fingering the hem of his slightly-oversized t-shirt, his own fringe framing his face flawlessly.

Taekwoon’s airway tightens as he sees the soft, vulnerable look in Jaehwan’s eyes when he shifts his gaze between somewhere along Taekwoon’s middle to his face. His heartbeat pitter-patters in his chest. He does not know what to do save stand aside. The decision, in his mind, is final.

“Come in,” he says quietly, “sit down.”

Jaehwan toes out of his immaculately clean shoes and enters the apartment. He looks around with his mouth slightly agape, and it takes Taekwoon a moment or two to remember that he’s never seen the inside of his place. “It’s nice in here,” Jaehwan comments, voice a little distant. “I can’t believe it, actually. Do studio musicians really make this much money?”

Anyone else saying this would probably offend Taekwoon, but he’s currently focused on keeping his attention anywhere but the memory of Jaehwan’s sweetmint toothpaste mingled with bubbles on his lips. He stuffs his hands into the pocket of his professionally distressed jeans and sits on the couch first, gesturing for Jaehwan to do the same.

“I’ve been thinking--” Taekwoon starts, clearing his throat midsentence, leaving room for Jaehwan to interject with a snarky comment. He doesn’t, just blinks those beautiful eyes in Taekwoon’s direction, waiting for him to continue. “I’ve been thinking. About...about your job.”

“What about it?” Jaehwan’s congenial as ever, scooting a little closer across the couch cushions, his shirttail dragging along the material with a soft swish. 

“Um.” The words aren’t coming the way he’d wanted them to, but it’s too late to back down. “Mostly the part about how you do this with other people.”

Another series of blinks, these coupled with a look of confusion; Jaehwan balances his elbow on his knee, rests his cheek in his palm. “I mean...yes. That’s the job. What’s to think about?”

Taekwoon’s chest constricts, threatens to choke the breath right from his body. “I guess...I just feel like what I ask of you is probably a lot. So I was wondering,” and he pauses, glancing away, trying to find the right words, “if you’d be interested in making a deal with your agency, about you maybe working a little less.”

The air between them freezes, Taekwoon freezing cold and feeling Jaehwan heat up this close to him. His eyes widen and his brow furrows as he visibly turns this over in his mind. “You think because I’m a hooker, my life is hard?” he asks in a soft and tremulous voice, the likes of which Taekwoon hasn’t yet heard. “Being a hooker isn’t hard, hyung. Going to school is hard. Making friends with people who can’t know what you do for a living is hard. People you thought were closer to you than some of those friends judging you is hard.” And his voice has an edge to it now, the sort that makes Taekwoon wish he’d never said anything at all, but it’s not over. “I actually like what I do, you know that?” Jaehwan laughs, a derisive little laugh. “It’s not ideal, but I bet your job isn’t, either. But I get to meet lots of people. Just last night I took a girl out for the first date she’d ever had. A few nights before that I was with a man older than you, three times as rich as you, who wanted to take me halfway across the world. And I didn’t accept the offer. But right now, I kinda wish I had.”

Taekwoon shrinks into himself, wrapping his arms around his knees as he’s drawing them up onto the couch. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“What, you didn’t mean to come off like an ass?” Jaehwan practically spits, his anger gaining real traction now. “You did. And I thought you were a nice guy, hyung, but the truth is probably that you pity me.”

“No, I don’t--”

“And if you pity me, then it means you don’t respect me. And if you don’t respect me, then you can find someone else to pretend to date.” He’s off the couch, now, fists clenched tight and face going red, a tiny bead of sweat forming at the line of his brow. “You couldn’t pay me enough to get pitied to my face once a week.”

He carries his shoes out of the apartment, shutting the door courteously behind him, and Taekwoon sniffs, fending off tears that he doesn’t understand. 

He attends the fundraiser alone, much to his own embarrassment. Everyone he knows asks after his beautiful boyfriend, and he doesn’t even know what to tell them. Instead, he gets sloppy drunk, keeps to himself until Wonshik approaches him and drags him out to say the hellos he needs to say.

Between rounds of the floor, Wonshik is surveying him with a quiet look; he keeps opening his mouth to speak, but apparently the questions don’t occur to him because he doesn’t say anything at all. Finally their obligations are complete and Wonshik and Taekwoon are in the corner, lurking, watching Hongbin and Hakyeon (how the hell does Hakyeon even manage to get invited to these things, Taekwoon wonders, mind swirling with despair) flirt their way across the room as a team, Taekwoon in the bottom of his fifth or sixth drink.

“Where is he?” Wonshik asks without even so much as looking Taekwoon in the face.

“I scared him off,” Taekwoon replies, glancing across the rim of his mostly-empty glass to see Wonshik’s brow etched with worry.

“Unscare him, then,” Wonshik says, as if it’s that easy, as if what Taekwoon has done is a minor mistake and not the probable undoing of something that occupies more of Taekwoon’s brain than he’d ever admit. “He was good for you, even though I know you didn’t notice.”

Hakyeon and Hongbin, across the room, are laughing their heads off at absolutely nothing, talking to the CEO of a rival company, and it might be the alcohol thrumming beneath his skin but he’s paranoid they’re laughing at him, for being a complete fool when it comes to interactions.

“Wonshik-ah,” he slurs a little, “I need a favour. From Hongbin. But I can’t ask him.”

Wonshik is Taekwoon’s best friend. He already knows, nods sagely, as if he knows something only the two of them could possibly. “I’ve got it,” he agrees with a little squeeze to Taekwoon’s shoulder. “Be right back.” He crosses the room to stand with Hakyeon and Hongbin, pulling his boyfriend off to the side for a quick conversation.

When he comes back, he’s holding a card, scribbled with an address. “Be careful,” he says, pulling Taekwoon into one of his classically awkward one-armed hugs.

Nodding, Taekwoon dials his car and asks his driver to come pick him up. He’s got something more important to do.

\-----

Jaehwan isn’t home.

Jaehwan’s roommate, Seokjin, is home, and he doesn’t have much to offer save a look of complete innocence and a glass of water (“It’s hot out,” he says with a sympathetic look on his face as he presses the glass into Taekwoon’s hand, “too hot to be drinking”). He doesn’t give an explanation for Jaehwan’s absence, just bows his head. “You’ll have to come back later, sir. I’m very sorry.”

Taekwoon stumbles away, shoulders slumped in defeat. Seokjin ducks back into the apartment and immediately seeks out his phone, dialing his roommate, his best friend.

“He came,” he says, by way of greeting, ignoring the loud crackle of static over the tinny receiver. “Like you said he would. Who is he?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaehwan says, so quietly he almost can’t be heard. “Thanks, Seokjinnie, you’ve really helped me out.”

“You know this happens once a month? Sometimes twice.” Seokjin isn’t accusing, in fact has his most pleasant voice on as he flops down onto their sofa with a loud _oomph_. “You’re either the luckiest bastard in existence, or the unluckiest.”

“Probably both,” Jaehwan agrees, unusually solemn.

“He was hot, though. And he looked rich. Do you have a hot, rich boyfriend, Jaehwanie?”

There is no answer for a long while, then Jaehwan sighs in that way usually saved for late-night study sessions in which he is exceptionally uninterested in his work. “Thanks again. I’ll be home soon. Order something for us to eat, okay? My card is in the drawer.”

The line disconnects. Seokjin stares at the ceiling, wondering what the hell that was all about for a long moment, before deciding they’re getting Thai for dinner.

\-----

Jaehwan’s agency is pretty upset with him, but all things considered, they should be thanking him. He’s done away with all the negativity, with all the stress of having feelings for a client, and moved on with his life pretty damn quickly. He’s booking just as much as he had been before Taekwoon had waltzed on into his life, making even more money for himself as well as them. 

All his success doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it, from time to time, when he’s about to fall asleep over his studies and has a date the next day. He’s so tired -- finals are near, after all; he’s studying himself to death just to break even, between working and hours upon hours of lectures -- that he wishes he could just take a break.

He doesn’t give himself one, of course. He’s nothing if not an absolute fucking workaholic.

Still, those late nights, things occur to him. He finds that he reads over their old messages a lot more now than he did then. He wonders if he’s let his pride get in the way of something that could have been...not great, not necessarily, but something more than just a standing offer for business.

Seokjin spends more time with him, lately, though he’s not sure if it’s out of actual effort or because his Friday nights are relatively free. He doesn’t ask questions, just sort of occupies the same space with casual conversation, offers for food, for going out, for company.

Jaehwan fills his half of these spaces with quiet thought about a shy smile.

He has to do something, doesn’t he.

So he shoots a message out into space. He knows that Hongbin, one of his old coworkers at the agency, knows Taekwoon somehow. It’s a far fling, but it produces results in the form of Hongbin respectfully chiding for acting like an ass. “You could’ve had it made,” Hongbin says confidently upon Jaehwan’s explanation of the situation, as if it’s about the money at this point. “And Wonshik says that his friend is really upset lately. Since you left him alone at the fundraiser.”

There’s a perverse sense of power in knowing that he’s affected Taekwoon that way. It would be greater, of course, if Taekwoon wasn’t doing the same to him, at a great distance, without so much as a parting conversation.

It’s been nearly three weeks since they’ve seen each other when Jaehwan decides he can’t take any more wondering, though he does it anyway, on the cab ride over to Taekwoon’s apartment. It’s the middle of the day; Jaehwan’s brought his study materials and parks it right next to that rude doorman, studies until Taekwoon makes his way home. It takes hours, and he’s a lot more proficient in rapid cell growth and subsequent mutation by the time he finally looks up, neck aching, eyes blurred. 

“Sir?” asks the doorman in a forced polite tone. “Sir, you just missed him. I can call the elevator as soon as it’s ready.”

“He didn’t notice me?” Jaehwan intones, vaguely dismayed, then realises that he’s slowly shrunk into the corner, behind a potted plant. Hard to see someone with five feet of ficus covering their entirety, he figures, standing and stretching his arms over his head.

The doorman -- who isn’t much a man at all, in fact, more like a young dude with an old man’s smile and the most charming eyes Jaehwan’s probably seen on anyone (aside from Taekwoon, of course) -- does as he says he will, ordering the elevator back to the ground floor, standing aside with his arm extended like an elegant gentleman. “Your ride, sir,” he says in a cheerful near-chirp, and Jaehwan, still fussing with his bag, stuffing books and index cards inside it, nods his thanks.

When he stands at Taekwoon’s door, he’s shaking, though he doesn’t mean to be. His shoulder is killing him and he doesn’t understand why. He rings the bell and almost immediately wants to bolt, but his legs aren’t steady enough to run on, and he’s tired of running anyway.

Taekwoon’s still in his work clothes -- leather pants, a light button-up with the top buttons undone, a slack tie round his neck -- when he answers the door, and his face lightens almost imperceptibly. “Jaehwan,” he sighs, rolling his shoulders a little. “Do, um. Do you want to come in.”

It’s not a question, Jaehwan notes, but Taekwoon steps aside all the same, invitation open. Jaehwan takes it, of course, because he didn’t come all this way to do nothing. He wants to yell. He wants to cry. He wants to beg forgiveness, even though he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. He does none of these things, just plunks down on the couch without a word.

Taekwoon is still slowly shuffling into the living room when Jaehwan starts speaking. “You really hurt my feelings.”

“I know,” Taekwoon whispers, stopping dead in his tracks just a few steps from where Jaehwan is sitting. “And I didn’t mean to.”

“No, stop. Let me do this.” Jaehwan swallows so thickly he’s sure his throat is lined in sand and rubber cement, but he’s going to say his piece, regardless of the results. “I meant what I said. I like my job. I don’t want to quit. It’s good money and helps me take care of things that need to be taken care of. But...I like you, too. And I’m not giving up on either, for the most part. I still want to go out, and meet people I haven’t met before. I still want to spend time with the one and a half friends I have besides you. I don’t want your money anymore, but I do want to spend more time with you.”

“Spend more time with me.” Taekwoon’s voice is a little hollow, a little echoing against the vaulted ceilings of his apartment. “What do you mean?”

“Hyung...I’ve been thinking about you this entire time,” and how Jaehwan’s left thoughtless and blank by a single confession, even he doesn’t know, but there he is. “And I didn’t want to be. I don’t want to be the one who falls for a client. But I kind of realised, like...the money isn’t anything to me, not if I would spend every minute I could with you for free. And you don’t have to take me to any fancy parties or anything, although I’m not complaining if you do. I want to learn about the real you, not the socially awkward guy who has to lie his way around social engagements.”

Taekwoon scoffs, a little amusement turning up the corners of his mouth. “What if I’m that socially awkward guy?”

Jaehwan stands, crosses the space between him, flings his arms around Taekwoon’s neck. “Then I like that guy just fine. Either way, quit trying to pay me for my time, okay? You’re the only client I’ve ever had more than once.”

“I am, huh,” and Taekwoon’s shaking a little, but he’s steady in Jaehwan’s arms, he’s there, and they stand in the middle of his immaculate living room, holding one another for what feels an eternity, until Jaehwan’s sure his messed-up shoulder is going to give.

“I can’t believe you went to my _house_ ,” Jaehwan murmurs, face buried in Taekwoon’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of him and ridding himself of three weeks’ worth of tension.

“I can’t believe you think I pitied you,” Taekwoon says in a quaking chuckle. “And just so you know, you’re the only person I’ve been out with more than once, too.”

\-----

“We’d all been so afraid that Taekwoon hyung had broken up with you,” says Do Kyungsoo, the latest singer to sign with Taekwoon’s label and someone in whom Taekwoon’s placed the greatest confidence. Jaehwan is laughing with his eyes if not his mouth, and he’s got a hand on Kyungsoo’s shoulder, flirting in that way that only he can do. He’s got a wineglass in hand and Kyungsoo’s boyfriend is towering next to him and the entire thing is weirdly domestic, for a company event.

This party, several months after their reconciliation, is actually one they couldn’t get out of -- Jaehwan had meant what he said about Taekwoon not needing to take him to any more events, but it seemed more than a little compulsory that they both attend. After all, it’s not every day that your average studio musician releases his first solo single.

Jaehwan had cried when he first heard the song in its entirety, though he didn’t let Taekwoon see even as he scrubbed fruitlessly at his eyes, wiping away tears that wouldn’t stop coming.

The composition is entitled “Your Eyes,” for which Wonshik has given Taekwoon no end of shit. But this is his moment, and in the end Wonshik ambles up beside him, pats him on the shoulder, looking more proud than he ever has of even his own accomplishments.

Even Hakyeon is there (again, how the fuck he gets into these things is a mystery), and he’s got a pretty charming-looking young guy on his arm. Pretty charming, pretty familiar. Taekwoon can’t place it until Jaehwan notices who it is and bursts into a fit of laughter.

“You know who that is, don’t you,” he asks Taekwoon, who shoots him a puzzled look. “That’s your doorman. At the apartment building.”

They share a good, long laugh over that, Jaehwan almost wandering off to greet the two of them, but Taekwoon stops him with gentle fingers at his elbow. “Where do you think you’re going,” he says in that stubborn tone of his, the one that Jaehwan seems to have come to interpret as Taekwoon being a brat. But then his fingers wind around Jaehwan’s soft-gold necktie and pull him close.

When they kiss, there’s no awkward catcalling coming from the other side of the room as there was last time, just the calming sounds of their hearts beating in time, and applause all around them. Jaehwan still tastes of sweetmint and champagne bubbles, and he fits against Taekwoon just right.


End file.
